


Severe Weather Warning

by Alistra (ALeaseInWonderland), CloudAtlas



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Morning After, One Night Stands, Power Outage, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:13:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22880062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALeaseInWonderland/pseuds/Alistra, https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudAtlas/pseuds/CloudAtlas
Summary: “Hi, sorry,” the guy – Clint, she thinks he’s Clint – says. “I, um. I can’t get out of your building?”Natasha stares at him.For the prompt: we just had a one-night stand but a massive storm hit so now we’re snowed in, hello awkward
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 36
Kudos: 189
Collections: Be Compromised Promptathon





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kiss_me_cassie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiss_me_cassie/gifts).



> Written for the be_compromised Mini Valentine's Day Promptathon. Unbeta'd.

It’s the dip of the mattress that wakes Natasha, her hips tilting and turning just enough to drag her from sleep, and it takes her a moment to put two and two together. No one else should be here, so what the fuck – ? Oh no wait, it’s the guy from last night.

She doesn’t move, keeping her eyes closed and her breathing as even as she can manage, as the guy move around her room, collecting his clothes and shoes and quietly tiptoeing out of the room, closing the door behind him with a quiet _snick_. She then counts five breaths and turns over to stretch, feeling her spine click.

It’s not her usual course of action, picking up random guys in bars because she hates her client, but _Christ_. That fucker Pierce is just _the worst_ and yesterday she’d finally snapped. If she hadn’t decided to get either shitfaced or laid, she’d probably have barged her way into his downtown office and stabbed him with the heel of her very high Louboutins he _insisted_ she wear because he was the world’s biggest _misogynistic douchebag_.

_God_.

Still, the guy last night was good enough that Natasha is willing to forgive yesterday for being shitty. _And_ he was smart enough not to stick around the next morning, for which Natasha was eternally grateful.

She sits up, prompting a delicious ache between her legs, and is about to swing herself out of bed to use the bathroom when she hears a knock on her front door. Natasha glances at her bedside clock, where the numbers 6:21 blink at her placidly. What the hell? She stills, wondering if it was fluke or an accident or a figment of her imagination but, not two seconds later, the knock comes again.

She gets up, grabbing her bathrobe on the way to the door. She also grabs the ornamental katana her friend Sam got her from Japan. For safety, obviously.

It’s the guy from last night, looking about as embarrassed as she’d expect of someone having to come back to the apartment of a one night stand. She gives her front room a quick sweep, keeping an eye out for a wallet, phone, anything that he might have left behind but nothing jumps out at her.

She opens the door.

“Hi, sorry,” the guy – Clint, she thinks he’s Clint – says. “I, um. I can’t get out of your building?”

Natasha stares at him.

He hadn’t given the impression of being a complete idiot last night, but clearly appearances can be deceiving because apparently he is.

“Down the stairs and turn left,” she says, trying but failing not to sound patronising.

Maybe-Clint frowns. “No, yeah. I know that. I mean – we’re snowed in? I can’t – the door opens into snow. I can’t leave the building.”

Natasha stares at him a bit longer before abandoning him at the door in favour of crossing to her window. Maybe-Clint goes up in her estimation when he doesn’t just walk into room and is bumped up another couple of notches when he doesn’t comment on her katana at all.

The street outside is blanketed in white, parked cars merely white humps and not a footprint to be seen. There must be at _least_ a foot of snow. More, where it’s been blown into drifts by the wind.

“It’s banked up against your door,” Maybe-Clint says from the door. “I can’t see over it.”

Maybe-Clint is definitely topping six feet, so that’s saying something.

“Apparently this is Storm Alexander,” he then adds helpfully, and Natasha can’t help but burst out, “ _Of course_ , it’s fucking Storm _Alexander_ ,” because she can’t fucking escape Alexander _fucking_ Pierce.

Which is, of course, when all the lights go out.

There’s a beat of silence.

From the muted light of dawn-reflected-off-snow, Natasha can see that Maybe-Clint still hasn’t moved from the doorway. Clearly he won’t enter unless invited and will simply sit out in the hallway until the snow goes unless Natasha intervenes.

Christ, she can’t have a shower now; hers is electric. She can’t watch the latest episode of the Great British Bake Off, can’t do the laundry she needs to do, she can’t even have the lie-in she was planning on because she’s about to invite her one night stand back into her house because of _Storm fucking Alexander_.

At least she has a gas hob. At least she can make _coffee_.

Natasha sighs.

“I guess you better come in,” she says.


	2. Variations in Weather Conditions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint's POV on the morning after the night before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alistra liked CloudAtlas' fic so much, she wrote a follow-up. CloudAtlas, being the legend that she is, not only said it was okay, she beta'ed the thing, added Ali as co-creator and tacked her writings onto her own fic as a second chapter. 
> 
> Like I said: legend.

"I guess you better come in,” she says, retreating into the kitchen.

Clint wastes no time doing just that, shutting the door on an unpleasant draft from the hallway. The snow outside provides an unreal quality to the morning and without electric lights, there are few more details visible to the apartment than when they stumbled in together a few hours ago. He steps over one of the heels she discarded before the door even closed behind them, shaking the flashback of her unceremoniously hitching up her dress and climbing into his arms, fully confident he'd be able to support her. It had been mindblowing how they'd understood each other's needs without words, how perfect their desires seemed to match and complete each other - and now here he stands self-conscious about whether to take his coat back off. Slowly but surely it's getting to be a little warm under the knit black hat with the purple H.

Hearing muffled swearing from the kitchen, he's just in time to see his reluctant host start to suck on the thumb she's managed to catch in a drawer. 

"Hey, let me help you with that!" he offers, taking the spoon from her uninjured right hand and placing it next to a sugar bowl on the table. "Mugs?" he asks, guessing her plan of action as he spots the percolator and bag of coffee on the counter.

She just points at one of the cabinets, still giving him that wary stare, and he wishes her thumb would hurry up and feel better because seeing it between her lips is not helping his thoughts to stay on the gentlemanly task at hand. It's worse than the previous night at the bar when, clearly bored, she kept playing with the straw in her drink. 

Sweat beads on his brow.

She gives his coat and hat a pointed look and Clint can only smile sheepishly, mentally rolling his eyes at himself as he returns to the living room long enough to quickly divest himself of his faded converse, coat and hat. It is still early, can't yet be seven in the morning and the circumstances are nowhere near normal. So maybe one can cut him some slack when, upon seeing her reaching for the gas hob, he grabs her wrist to stop her instead of speaking up, like a sane person. Nevertheless, that's what happens, and her reflexes are quick, too, instantly pulling back against his hold, challenging first his, then her balance and before either has the sense to analyze what is happening, they are standing way too close and breathing in each other's air, charged with all the titillating things they have been doing to each other only hours ago. 

"What the fuck-!" she bites out, as if he cannot feel her pulse racing under his fingertips, as if the sudden proximity doesn't distract him just as much. 

"Power's out." he replies, hoping she doesn't notice the hitch in his voice or the heat creeping up his neck as he releases her wrist, reluctantly unfurling one finger at a time before stepping out of her personal space. "No electricity means no igniter. Hob likely has a flame failure device for safety, so if it doesn't ignite, the gas shuts off and you won't be able to use it until someone's sorted it for you."  
She's looking at him as if he's grown a second head. 

"I've lived in a lot of places with shoddy wiring." he explains with a shrug. "Got any matches? If we have a lit match waiting when the gas comes on, we bypass the mechanism."

"Drawer over there. Careful though. It bites." she indicates with a tilt of her chin and the tiny wondering smile that comes with it does nothing to dispel the different kind of electricity in the small room. 

Indeed, the trick works and soon they are seated at a kitchen table that is either a sentimental heirloom or has been found dumpster diving. The formica has cracked, resembling spindly tree limbs and branches, thrown into shadow by their much newer, matching steaming coffee mugs. It's a lovely kitchen, from what Clint can see. Lots of small personal touches. There's what looks like a framed drawing on one wall, but it's hard to make out in this light. Clint really isn't much of an interior decorator and he doesn't particularly want to be thinking about the room, but the only other thing to be studying is the beautiful woman across from him, wearing a fluffy bathrobe and, considering how he'd left her alone for only minutes before his unexpected return, likely nothing else.  
He doesn't want to look at the way her artfully coiled curls from last night are now a dishevelled tumble of wavy garnet red. If he did, he'd remember his part in ruining her perfect composure, one breathless moan at a time, his fingers winding into her locks and tugging just enough for her to feel the tension, to take the hint and meet him for a kiss that-

He clears his throat, fidgeting in his seat. "Good coffee." The silly table is too small, their knees keep bumping accidentally underneath it. 

When her only reply comes as a non-committal hum, it's reassuring to see her just as unwilling to make small talk. 

"I should put some clothes on." she says when the silence has stretched on long enough to become unbearable, fleeing into the bedroom and leaving him to stew in the unfamiliar quiet of powerless domestic appliances and snow-muted hints of the city waking outside. 

Clint helps himself to the last of the coffee, taking the time to have a closer look at the picture frame that caught his eye before. It's a pencil sketch of a dancer in mid-motion, flurrying skirts captured perfectly and laughing features without a doubt those of the woman currently avoiding him inside her own home. _"Happy birthday to my favourite Red Menace - Steve"_ a note reads in the bottom right corner. 

A quick look around has him checking for signs of a habitual male presence, but he's relieved to find nothing speaks to the fact that he's inadvertently intruded on someone's relationship. Following the nondescript noises of someone moving around, he takes his mug into the living room, where his hostess is collecting her trail of last night's discarded clothing. He notices with no little disappointment that she's used the time to wash the smoky shadows of old make-up off her eyes, wrangle her hair into a messy bun and replace the bathrobe with a pair of loose yoga pants and a well-worn green t-shirt with the almost entirely faded word _SMASH!_ on the back. Their eyes meet as she's picked up the last item - her bra, of all things - and for a moment they just look at each other before the hilarity of the situation comes crashing in and leaves them both laughing somewhat helplessly. 

"There was an announcement by the mayor's office," she says after they've caught their breath, pointing to the cell phone on the couch table. "People are advised to stay indoors as Storm Alexander is not done with us yet. Suppose we're stuck here for a while."

"Well, shit." Clint curses, running a hand over the beginning of stubble on his cheek. "Mind if I take a shower then?" 

"If you don't mind the cold. Heater's electric." She laughs at his immediate face of distress and it's so genuine, pretty and _hot_ that it'd make up for all the cold showers in the world, Clint thinks, floored by just how deeply in trouble he is. He's only gone and fallen in love with this complete failed attempt at an one-night-stand. 

His dismay only worsens with the startling realization that he doesn't remember her name. 

_Fuck._

~*~

In the end, Clint doesn't have a cold shower, opting instead for a perfunctory wash in the sink. Reemerging from the bathroom feeling a little cleaner and a lot more awake, he finds ...her... on the couch. Damn. He really needs to figure out her name before this gets any more awkward.

On the table in front of her there's a beaten-up cardboard box, a picture of a variety of boardgames on the lid.

"That's a bold claim." Clint nods, indicating the funky 1980's font advertising _Hours of Fun!!!_ as he chooses to join her rather than sit in the cushioned chair further away. He's rewarded with an almost-smile, one of the blink-and-you'll-miss-it kind and he feels something he hasn't known was tense unravelling warmly in his chest. "That box looks like it's been witness to quite a few hours of fun already. You a big boardgame enthusiast?"

"Not really, seemed like a way to pass the time. Can't say when I've last played anything. It's just one of those things you lug around forever, isn't it? I mean, I'm pretty sure my sister and I both doodled our names on it somewhere to make sure the other didn't take it, you know how siblings are." She hesitates, shoots him a sideways glance as she opens the box, uncovering an absolute mess of dice, pick-a-sticks, and various playing pieces, all of different sizes and colours. Clint quickly snatches the lid away under the cover of being helpful. Trying to make out the glittery pink scribbles on the inside, he almost misses her question: "Do you?"  
"Mh? Do I what?" he squints at the scraggly lines, clearly done by hands of differing writing aptitude, but neither makes sense. What kind of a name is "Eneha", and why is the n such a squiggle? He's pretty sure her name started with a consonant, so that can't be right.

"Know what siblings are like. Do you have any?" she explains with a roll of her eyes, and he cannot tell whether it's exasperation at him being slow or at her own sad attempt at making conversation.

"Oh. Yeah, sorry. Sure. I've got a brother." He points at the longer word inside the lid. "Is that her? _Hatawa_ is a bit of an unusual name."

Her brows draw together for a second trying to suss whether he's serious, then she starts laughing - is she laughing _at_ him? - expression only softening when she realizes that he wasn't being clever.

"No, the other one. Says _Yelena_ there - cyrillic letters, see? We're Russian." Her hand alights on his thigh in apology. All things considered, it's about the tamest she has touched him. Hell, even their taxi ride back to her place was more explicit. Still here and now, with the morning still young, him in yesterday's clothes and her messy-haired and without make-up, it gains a different quality. Clint covers her hand with his own and smiles even wider when she doesn't immediately pull away.

"Well, in that case you're the most beautiful 'Hatawa' I have ever met." he quips, waggling his eyebrows comically and her answering laugh is just as pretty as the one preceding it.

Honestly though, he really wishes she'd have told him her real name again, because it's getting too late to ask.

~*~

It turns out that there are pieces for about 15 different games in the box but none of them are complete, and the book of instructions has got lost at some point as well. In the end, the only real option is Snakes and Ladders and even that is only playable because they use a Sharpie to draw a rubbed-off dot back onto the die.

The next, more surprising, discovery is that they are both fiercely competitive. 

Before long, increasingly inventive but good-natured mocking leads to less-than-sneaky cheating, followed by an escalating series of 'punishments' for bad die rolls.  
Clint is in the process of performing an easy handstand when reaching for a pillow to chuck at him nearly has her tipping over the board.

"You're such a show-off," she says, laughing at him. "What are you, an escaped circus performer?"

"Maybe. Didn't you feel the _magic_ last night?" he quips, flipping back down to collect the game pieces. It's the first time they've openly mentioned the previous night and he cannot bring himself to look at her, unsure of her reaction.

The moment stretches, but just before it can turn the corner into awkwardness, he's drawn back by her snorted laugh. 

"Now that you mention it, practising sleight of hand _would_ explain your impressive dexterity. That, or a sordid past as a pickpocket." she jokes, clapping a hand on his shoulder to stand, stretching unselfconsciously and stifling a yawn. "God, I can't believe the last time I was up this early on a Saturday. What's the time anyw-?"

She trails off and his eyes snap up to meet hers. 

Can she tell he'd been mesmerized by the small sliver of hip her movement revealed?

"Sorry," he replies, mouth suddenly dry and not sounding apologetic at all. 

It's still so quiet in the apartment, as if the world outside has ceased to exist. His hands find hers and she lets him guide her one step forward, so she ends up standing bracketed by his knees as their eyes lock. It's nothing like the heated touches of the previous night, nothing like the hidden promises of a simple introductory handshake at the bar. 

Clint can’t help feeling that they've gone about this whole thing in the entirely wrong order, having already spent the night together before realizing just how much he actually likes her. 

Gently, almost reverently, his fingertips trace her wrists and venture up her forearms, their eyes never straying from each other's. She shivers and as much as he'd love to take credit for it, the amount of gooseflesh he encounters can't be due only to his seduction skills. 

"You're freezing. When did it get so cold in here?"

Visibly blinking against whatever thought she's just privately entertained, she steps away and checks the nearest radiator. The curse that follows is rather more colorful than he expected, making his eyebrows rise briefly in surprise. 

"...so heating's out as well," he translates redundantly. 

Fighting a yawn of his own against the back of his hand, he shrugs. "There's not much we can do it about it right now, and I don't know about you, but I'm pretty worn out." He smiles, emboldened by the way she's still looking at him. "You see, I met this woman last night-" he catches the plush projectile aimed at his face. "Ahh, so that's why they're called _throw pillows_!" 

The pronounced eyerolling over his dumb jokes is never going to get old, he can tell already. 

"Okay, okay, my bad. Seriously though: we're both tired, could we maybe go-" he catches himself just before saying _back to bed_ , his bravado suddenly failing him. Instead he opts to tip his chin in the vague direction of the bedroom. "Go warm up and nap for a little while longer? No ulterior motive, promise. Just sleep and when we wake up, I'll likely be able to get out of your hair." Holding up both hands to underline his sincerity, he sees a small line of concentration appear on her brow, as if she was trying to suss him out. He offers her his most disarming smile in return. 

She shakes her head, hands on her hips and mind apparently made up. Clint tries not to let his disappointment show, but there's a reason why he never leaves a poker table with any substantial winnings. He's unprepared when she takes his hand back and pulls him to his feet, standing entirely too close, an impish grin playing over her lips. 

"I don't think either of us are that exhausted yet" she disagrees, "I for one was beginning to look forward to more _magic_." Her lovely low voice drops to a whisper as she rises on tiptoes, smiling lips tantalizingly close all of a sudden. "I can't wait to find out what you can do with a string of coloured handkerchiefs."

**Author's Note:**

> In Cyrillic letters, Natasha is spelled Наташа, Yelena is Елена.


End file.
